


See It Burn When You Bring Me Sunlight

by torakowalski



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Era, First Kiss, M/M, Magicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It doesn’t strike me as a particularly sensible idea to bring your dreams of revolution to the King’s Magician.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	See It Burn When You Bring Me Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eiirene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiirene/gifts).



> HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY! <3
> 
> With huge thanks to Moog for cheerleading as I went along and THEN stepping up to help me make it better!

Enjolras walked up the steps with a certain sense of purpose to his stride, but as soon as he was confronted by the large, impossibly black doorknocker, he lost a little of his conviction.

Only a little, though. Enjolras had a lot of conviction.

He lifted his fist and pounded on the door, since he’d already been warned to avoid using the knocker at all costs. The last person who’d tried, he’d heard, had ended up in Australia.

In a remarkably short time, someone opened the door.

He was a small man, with bright copper hair and an interesting collection of skirts and scarves covering the majority of his body. He was also smiling surprisingly pleasantly.

“Hello,” he said. “Monsieur Enjolras?”

Enjolras hesitated for a second, but decided not to ask how it was that he knew that. “Monsieur Grantaire?” he asked.

The man laughed, but shook his head. “Jean Prouvaire,” he said, nodding politely but not holding out a hand to shake. “Grantaire is not in the best of moods, I’m afraid.”

From what Enjolras had heard, Grantaire was never in the best of moods. “That’s fine,” he said. “I need a consultation, not a chit-chat.”

Prouvaire’s lips quirked. “You’re equally likely to find yourself turned into a cat.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Enjolras said, and stepped through the doorway, before Prouvaire could decide to shut the door in his face. “Why a cat?” he asked, once he was safely inside. “I thought toads were more usual.”

Prouvaire smiled again, something soft and fond. “Because I like cats,” he said. He stepped away from Enjolras and leant against the bannisters, tipping his head up. “Grantaire! You were right; he was very insistent.”

“Told you!” someone - Monsieur Grantaire? - yelled from upstairs.

Prouvaire waited, but nothing more came. He looked at Enjolras and shrugged.

“I’ll just head up then, shall I?” Enjolras asked him, putting one foot on the bottom step. 

Smoke appeared from nowhere, filling the air in a thick, choking curtain. Enjolras coughed twice, obligingly, then swept it out of the way. “Defensive magic doesn’t work on me,” he said, half to Prouvaire, who was blinking at him, and half pitched to carry up the stairs.

The stairs creaked ominously, but Enjolras ignored that too and forged ahead. There were paintings on the walls of the first floor landing, brightly coloured abstract pieces that he didn’t recognise. A lot of natural light came in through tall windows and there were fresh vases of daisies every few feet.

It was, in short, very unlike the mental image Enjolras had carried of the home of Paris’s Most Famous Magician.

(The capital letters were half due to the way Grantaire was often referred to in the press, and half Courfeyrac’s fault. Courfeyrac was the only person Enjolras knew who was capable of speaking in capital letters.)

“First room on the left,” Prouvaire called after Enjolras.

“Thank you,” Enjolras called back and headed that way.

“Don’t come any closer,” rumbled a deep and forbidding voice, as soon as his hand touched the handle.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Am I supposed to be intimidated?” he asked, pushing open the door Prouvaire had pointed him toward.

It sparkled and crackled under his hands. Enjolras had a strong impression of very annoyed magic, the sort that might have thrown anyone else across the room, but probably wouldn’t have caused any permanent damage.

The room beyond was also brightly lit, an easel set up in the far window and a wide double bed filling a good portion of the room. Books lined one wall, and in front of them sat a workbench, which was covered in small glass vials and lushly coloured feathers.

Enjolras removed his hat. “Monsieur Grantaire?” he asked.

There was a laugh from the darkest corner of the room. “Oh, now you’re polite?” asked the same voice as earlier, although it had lost its over-exaggerated deepness. “After barging into my home?”

“I hardly barged,” Enjolras pointed out. 

_Don’t argue with him, we need his help_ , said Combeferre in his head.

_Shh_ , Enjolras thought back sternly.

There was a noise of interest from the same dark corner. “Are you telepathic?” he asked. 

“I’m not,” Enjolras said, “but my friend is.”

“Interesting,” said Grantaire. “And what is your special skill, _mon ange_?”

“I’m hardly an angel,” Enjolras said.

_If the man wants to call you an angel, don’t argue!_ That was Courfeyrac. Great. Enjolras really didn’t need them both heckling from the quiet corners of his brain.

“What would you like me to call you?” Grantaire asked. “Not angel, but perhaps you are David made flesh, perhaps you are Apollo from on high, perhaps you are a star fallen from heaven.”

“I’m Enjolras,” Enjolras said curtly. “You _are_ the magician Grantaire, aren’t you?”

There was a pause then, “I am,” he said sadly. 

The shadows in the corner shifted and then a man stepped forward. Enjolras had seen Grantaire before, from a distance at court, but he’d never seen him close enough to study in any detail. 

Close to, Grantaire was unexpectedly wiry, more than a little untidy, with a few days’ worth of red-brown beard and dark hair that stood straight up in a nest of waves. He was wearing a simple white shirt, unbuttoned to the sternum, and black, paint-splattered trousers.

He was a far cry from the man, who had stood next to the king and made it rain rose petals at the dauphin's christening. 

“What is it you want, angel?” Grantaire asked him. He drifted across the room, swaying a little unsteadily, until he reached the workbench. 

“Must you call me that?” Enjolras asked.

“Must you look like that?” Grantaire shot back. He picked up a vial from the desk, sniffed it then put it back. He picked up a second, then a third, poured one into the other, and then drank it down in one, quick shot.

Enjolras frowned. “What was in that?”

Grantaire tipped the vials up to the light. One glowed faintly green, the other was colourless. “Either,” he said, with slow, careful enunciation, “it was an exciting combination of absinthe and vodka, or it was a potion to cure baldness mixed with rat poison. We will have to see, I suppose.”

“Are you…” Enjolras hesitated, not because it was in his nature to be tactful, but because he knew Combeferre would shout at him, if he wasn’t, and it _was_ in his nature to appease Combeferre. “Are you quite well?”

Grantaire turned to him and smiled slowly. “I was well yesterday,” he said, as though he was describing a pleasant dream. “Perhaps I shall be well again, tomorrow. What do you think?”

_I think he needs help_ , Courfeyrac said urgently, as though Enjolras might have missed that.

“I hope you will be,” Enjolras said carefully. “Should I come back, then?” He was loathed to leave, but Grantaire was either drunk or insane and Enjolras didn’t think either of those would make him receptive to what he had to say.

“No!” Grantaire said, then, “Well, yes. Come back every day, I’d like that. But please don’t leave. I’ll be lonely.”

“You have Monsieur Prouvaire,” Enjolras said. He wondered if he should fetch him. He wondered if Prouvaire was Grantaire’s carer.

Grantaire smiled. “My Jehan,” he said. He pointed at the row of daisies sprayed across the window. “He makes those. Aren’t they lovely? What _is_ your talent, angel-Enjolras.”

Enjolras swallowed. “That’s an impertinent question,” he said.

“Is it?” Grantaire asked with a frown. “You told me about your friend’s telepathy, I told you about my friend’s daisy-making, and everyone in France knows what I can do. Why shouldn’t I know what you can do?”

“Because,” Enjolras said, except he didn’t have a satisfactory answer, not one that wouldn’t make him look foolish, so he left it there. “May I discuss my proposal or not?”

Grantaire’s attention had been drifting away, back to his workbench, but it slid back to Enjolras at that. “A proposal?” he said. “How lovely, but we’ve just met.”

In Enjolras’s head, Courfeyrac laughed and Combeferre made the humming noise he made, when he was entertained. Enjolras was glad they were having such a splendid time. 

“Let’s sit down,” Grantaire said, abruptly changing the subject on himself. He looked around. “I’m sure there used to be chairs. Oh well, never mind, the bed will do.” He sat down and patted the duvet. “Will the bed do, Monsieur?”

It felt silly to call on a magician for revolutionary purposes and then worry about propriety, so Enjolras shook his head. “The bed will do fine,” he said, sitting next to Grantaire. He clasped his hands together, while Grantaire waited patiently. “I’ve come to ask for your help.”

Grantaire smiled with one side of his mouth. “What will it be?” he asked. “Love spell? No, you wouldn’t need that. Sunshine on your graduation day? Rain on your wedding day? I’m particularly adept at weather spells, you know.”

Enjolras squared his shoulders, refusing to be distracted. “I plan to overthrow the monarchy,” he said. “Will you help?”

Grantaire made a strangled noise, which Enjolras eventually realised was a laugh. “Are you serious?” he asked. He leant closer. “Did I hallucinate that? Maybe it _was_ rat poison.”

Enjolras shook his head. “This time of inequality must come to an end,” he said. “It’s time for the people to rise.”

Grantaire lifted a hand and pressed it to Enjolras’s forehead. His skin was cool and dry. “You seem well,” he said, more or less to himself. “However, it doesn’t strike me as a particularly sensible idea to bring your dreams of revolution to the King’s Magician.”

Enjolras snorted. “ _King’s Magician_ is just a fancy way of saying servant.”

“Perhaps.” Grantaire tipped his hand from side of side. “But, it allows me to live in this lovely house, with my lovely friend, and fill my time in whatever manner I wish.”

“And what manner do you wish?” Enjolras asked. 

A wicked grin spread across Grantaire’s face. “Well, currently, I’m amusing myself imagining what you might look like out of those fine clothes, but if you mean more generally, I’m making a study of every wine in France and ranking them in order of quality.”

“A fine pursuit,” Enjolras said flatly. He forced himself to ignore the first part of Grantaire’s sentence, so he wouldn’t become distracted.

Grantaire nodded. “I think so. Jehan doesn’t.” He drew his feet up onto the bed and rested his cheek against his knees. There was a weariness to him that seemed to weigh his every movement. “What is it you want of me?”

“Your help,” Enjolras said immediately. “I have a group of like-minded friends and our numbers are growing daily, but we have no truly powerful magicians on our side, as yet.”

Grantaire’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “So you decided to start with me?”

“You are the best known magician in all of France and the one who is least free.” This was the moment, when Enjolras would usually have clasped Grantaire’s hand in order to truly convey his meaning. Considering how desperately Grantaire had been flirting with him and how little Enjolras felt he truly meant it, that didn’t seem like a good idea.

“I can’t help you,” Grantaire said. He sounded sad about it, but also certain.

Enjolras leant in closer. “We will be triumphant,” he said. “There is no need to be afraid of reprisals, or - ”

“No.” Grantaire shook his head. “I can’t help you. I won’t help you. There is no changing this world, and you are too pretty to watch die.” He smiled again, awful and bleak. “I’m too drunk to die and I won’t put Jehan’s life in danger, either. I’m sorry. You should go to someone braver.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “We’re much less likely to fail, if you help us,” he said. “Even if you won’t help yourself, surely you want to save others. A world where the ruling classes pluck the most talented magicians from their families and keep them as slaves is not a just world.”

“A moment ago I was a servant; now I’m a slave?” Grantaire asked, maddeningly calm. 

“Whatever you wish to call yourself,” Enjolras said slowly, patiently, through gritted teeth.

“When I was seven, I wished to call myself Wilberforce, but my mother wouldn’t allow it,” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras stood up, suddenly exhausted. “So you won’t help us?” he asked. 

Grantaire stared up at him. He had dark eyes that turned to liquid in the shadows. “I wish I could,” he said.

“Then help,” Enjolras said, patience fraying. He tried to suck a calming breath in through his teeth but it was too late, any semblance of calm was gone. “Don’t sit around here _wishing_ and telling me I’m going to die. Help us.”

Grantaire didn’t blink. He took so long to respond that Enjolras felt a spark of hope. Eventually, though, Grantaire shook his head. “I can’t.”

Enjolras blew out a gust of air, hoping it would take his anger and his disappointment with it. “Very well,” he said, and turned away.

He stalked across the room, and reached for the door.

“A kiss,” Grantaire said, quietly from behind him.

Enjolras froze, fingertips grazing the door handle. In his head, Courfeyrac made a high-pitched noise, which hurt Enjolras’s braincells. “Pardon me?”

“A kiss,” Grantaire repeated, steadier this time, more certain. “That is the payment I’d ask for helping you and your cause.”

Enjolras turned slowly. “Are you serious?” he asked.

Grantaire was looking back at him. He folded his arms and stared Enjolras down. “I don’t want to help you and you don’t want to kiss me. It seems fair to me.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, thinking quickly. “One kiss?”

Grantaire nodded, slowly. He was looking at Enjolras closely, as though he had no expectation that Enjolras would agree. “One kiss.”

In his head, Combeferre said, _This is ridiculous, there are other ways that we can -_

_Enjolras_ , Courfeyrac said over him. _There’s no need to kiss anyone, not if you don’t want to_.

“One moment,” Enjolras said to Grantaire. He turned away. Out loud, he said firmly, “Please give me some damn privacy.”

_Sorry_ , Courfeyrac said, immediately.

_You don’t have to do this_ , Combeferre added.

Enjolras refused to let himself look back at Grantaire. _I don’t mind_ , he thought. The truth was that Grantaire wasn’t unappealing. He was interesting-looking. Enjolras could give him one kiss, if that was all it took to bring him to their side. God knew, more people had made much bigger sacrifices for their cause.

“All right,” Enjolras said. He turned back and looked Grantaire in the eye. “One kiss.”

Grantaire’s eyes flared. “Not seriously?” he asked. He looked as though shock had knocked some of the alcohol from his thoughts.

Enjolras tipped his chin up. He could feel his cheeks heating up, so he resolved to ignore it. “Why ask me for something, you do not want me to give?”

“I…” Grantaire laughed, a little hysterically. “I did not say I didn’t want you to give it. But I never thought you would. You were supposed to storm off, offended, and never bother me again.”

Despite himself, Enjolras couldn’t help feeling a little smug at having called Grantaire’s bluff. “And now that you know I am willing?”

Grantaire licked his lips. He closed his eyes for a second. “Then I’m a man of my word,” he said. He stood up and held out his hand. “Come here.”

Enjolras stepped forward and let Grantaire take him by the wrist and pull him closer. 

“How would you like - ?” Enjolras started to ask, but Grantaire was already moving in. He put his hand on the side of Enjolras’s face, holding him still with a thumb against his cheekbone and fingers curled under his jaw.

Enjolras’s breath stopped in his chest.

Grantaire’s lips were soft against his, chapped. They barely exerted any pressure, before Grantaire stepped back.

“There,” Grantaire said. He bowed slightly. “Your debt is paid.”

“Was that all?” Enjolras asked, before he could stop himself. 

“All,” Grantaire asked, dragging the word out. “I think I may be offended.”

“I may not be as experienced as some,” Enjolras said, which was the nearest he could bring himself to saying _that may have been my first kiss_ , “but even I know that you are letting me off easily. I will not have it said that I welch on my debts.”

Grantaire tipped his head as though that would help him to understand Enjolras easier, as though Enjolras were saying something confusing. Enjolras didn’t believe he was.

“You wish for a second kiss?” he asked. He sounded as though he was doubting himself.

“Not a second kiss,” Enjolras said. Grantaire nodded, looking relieved. “I would beg a second chance at the first kiss, so that I may better fill my half of our bargain.”

Grantaire took a long moment to answer him. “You don’t have to. You paid the price I asked. I’ll help you.”

Enjolras had been planning for this moment for months. Everything hinged on bringing Grantaire on board. The relief he felt that Grantaire would actually help them almost knocked him off his feet.

He should have made his excuses and left to prepare for what was to come. But he found that he didn’t want to do that, yet. “I insist. If you have no objections, of course.”

“Objections,” Grantaire echoed, disbelieving. When he spoke, his words were as soft as Enjolras’s had been. “I suspect I may be letting myself in for more than I expected. But yes, if you insist on being kissed again, I will allow it.”

There was something suspiciously like a laugh in Enjolras’s head. Enjolras ignored it.

“You are kind,” he said. “Will you allow me to… initiate contact?” Maybe it would be easier to feel as though he had truly paid a price, if he were the one in control.

Grantaire shook his head, but, “All right,” he said, helplessly. He stood still, hands at his sides and waited. 

Enjolras knew what he was waiting for, that he was waiting for _him _, but it still took him a moment to act. Then he nodded decisively and put himself back into Grantaire’s orbit.__

__He took Grantaire’s hand in his, because that was what Grantaire had done with him. He looked at Grantaire’s mouth. There was a small cut at in the far left corner and a smattering of deeper stubble under his bottom lip, as though he often missed it when shaving._ _

__It shouldn’t have been an attractive mouth. Somehow, though, it was._ _

__Enjolras wet his lips with his tongue then placed them against Grantaire’s. He kissed him slowly, picturing the kisses he’d witnessed his friends share with young men and ladies of their acquaintance, trying to recreate that._ _

__It took a moment, but then Grantaire responded, parting his lips a little and kissing Enjolras back with a slow, careful deliberation as though making note of every touch, as though each pass was an individual brush stroke._ _

__Captivated, Enjolras lifted a hand toward Grantaire’s jaw. His fingers had barely made contact, the drag of sharp hairs against his fingertips, when Grantaire stumbled backwards._ _

__Reality came rushing back in._ _

__Enjolras cleared his throat. His heart was pounding hard. He felt more than a little off balance._ _

__Grantaire looked just as badly off. His eyes were wide, and he managed to look even more dishevelled than previously. “I - ” he started to say._ _

__“You will come to a meeting?” Enjolras confirmed, cutting him off._ _

__Grantaire lifted his hand as though he was going to touch Enjolras’s face again, then let it fall back to his side. “I will,” he agreed. “Will you kiss me again?”_ _

__Enjolras should say no, he knew he should. “When we are victorious,” he said, instead._ _

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were worried, everyone lives.


End file.
